


He Asked Me to Dance

by HippieAshley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippieAshley/pseuds/HippieAshley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was bullied all through his teenage years.  On one of these occasions, his assailants nearly go too far, but a kind med student comes to his rescue.  Contrary to the title, there is no actual dancing in this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Asked Me to Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Sherlock fanfic, and I haven't written ANY fanfic since my early high school days, back in 2005, when I was into Harry Potter and Teen Titans. I do hope you enjoy this, though!

Breath comes out of his nose in steamy white clouds as Sherlock Holmes walks down the London sidewalk, the long way to his brother’s office. He’s only going because Mycroft has offered him a hundred quid if he’ll take a look at the budget for some small country’s military spending and tell him what’s wrong with it. He’s only going the long way to make Mycroft wait. Mycroft _hates waiting_ , especially on his thirteen year-old brother.

It’s the weekend, so Sherlock is allowed to leave the campus of his public school and go wherever he pleases. Mycroft said he’d pay for a cab, but Sherlock would rather annoy Mycroft by making him wait. Even though it’s cold, Sherlock can hardly feel the chill. He’s watching a couple several paces ahead of him.  
 __

 _The woman recently said no to a marriage proposal. Why? She’s cheating on him, and he doesn’t know it. She can’t stand to be touched by him because she’s so guilty. They’re obviously living together, but they’ll argue tonight over something stupid and the woman will move out.  
_

 _Boring._

Sherlock is so busy observing the couple that he doesn’t sense the three boys from his school walking behind him. He turns at the next intersection, away from the predictably dull couple. The street is quieter here. Less traffic. The windows all have the curtains drawn in the tall buildings around him.

Without the traffic, Sherlock can suddenly hear the footsteps behind him, uncomfortably close. He speeds up.  
 __

 _Idiot_ , he thinks to himself. _You complete dolt, you should have stayed on the main roads. Why didn’t you notice them?_

The footsteps behind him speed up too. Sherlock doesn’t need to turn around to know who they are or what they want; he can tell by their footfalls. One set is very heavy, one has a slight hesitation on the left step from a sports injury, and one… well, Sherlock would know those footsteps anywhere. He’s been running from them for a while now.

Quickly, he ducks into an alleyway, not quite wide enough for a car, but Sherlock knows it goes through to Baker Street, only a few blocks from his brother’s office. He knows all the streets. If he can just get through this alley, there’s a much lower chance that the three boys will continue following him. Crowds. What Sherlock needs is people. Witnesses.

Without warning, he bursts into a full sprint. His long wool coat, a Christmas present from Mycroft, flaps behind him as he runs. The steam from his labored breathing rises in waves and the cold air bites at his lungs as he sucks it in harsh gasps. Sherlock knows he’s fast, but he can hear the bullies behind him, catching up. A rough hand on the collar of his coat makes him stumble, but he slips his arms free and runs a few more steps before he’s tackled to the ground. His knees burn and he knows his trousers are shredded. The gritty concrete also easily slashes through the skin on his palms as he tries to catch himself.

The worst part is, he can see the mouth of the alley, only a few meters away, the cars rushing by and a few people walking, but nobody looking down the nondescript alley. It’s one of hundreds.

“Hey, freak,” one of the boys growls, the ground crunching under his boots. _Steel toe. Of course,_ Sherlock thinks right before the boot connects with his stomach. He coughs, gasping, the air knocked right out of him.

The three laugh; it’s a guffaw, really. Sherlock tries to stand up. Maybe if he’s standing they won’t kick him as much, switch to punching. No luck. He gets kicked right back to the ground, in his left shoulder. Pain surges all the way down his arm, and he winces, hating that he can’t control his facial expressions to show no pain, no fear.

“Thought you could run away, huh?” asks one of them, and Sherlock can hear the thin amusement, not quite masking the malice in his voice.

“He probably thought he could get to big brother’s office before we caught up. Is that it, shit-head? Running to your big brother? You baby,” says another.

Sherlock looks up, fixing the coldest stare he can on the older boy. He comes to a decision very quickly.

“You’re going to be mediocre for the rest of your life after school.” They all blink and look at each other. _Idiots,_ he thinks. Sherlock takes a deep breath. “And you’re going to go bald in your twenties.” Bam.

A kick in the side of the head. Sherlock is hardly conscious enough to be grateful it isn’t from the steel-toed boots. He knows it isn’t the smartest decision he’s ever made, but he also knows they’re going to beat him up anyway. Might as well feel he deserves it.

The cement is very cold under his cheek, and he can feel it leeching the heat through his thin school shirt. The steel toe kicks him again, this time in the ribs. He can tell the blows aren’t as strong as they could be. He knows this isn’t meant to kill him. It’s still excruciating.

Sherlock tries to get up again; that’s what they want, really. Groveling, begging, pleading. Sherlock won’t do that, but he will at least try to escape. If he doesn’t, he’ll just be ridiculed more. Someone flips him over and rests a boot high on his chest. The mud from the bottom of it drips around his neck, making him shiver. The boot presses down and Sherlock scrunches his eyes up.

“Do you want me to stop?” asks the bully. Sherlock nods as best he can with a boot practically crushing his breastbone. “ _Do you!?_ ” screams the voice.

Sherlock isn’t going to beg. He isn’t going to cry, even if he wants to, which, he’s ashamed to know, he does.

“Yes.” It’s just a whisper, ending in a cough. The boy’s foot moves to his throat proper, rolling the boot over it, coating Sherlock’s neck in more mud. The three boys laugh.

“Doesn’t sound like he means it, does it?” asks one of the other thugs, still laughing. The boot grinds down into Sherlock’s throat. His windpipe is being blocked; he can feel it. He’s been choked before. Being bullied isn’t new, but it’s still uncomfortable. As the seconds pass, Sherlock feels himself struggle against his will. His hands moved around the boot, trying to dislodge it, but it holds firm. It’s hard to stay calm when little pinpricks of white then black fall in his vision.

After an eternity, the boot lifts. Sherlock sits up gasping, hands at his chest and throat. The icy air scrapes into his lung, like swallowing ice chips as he draws breath.

“Had enough?” Sherlock just coughs; he couldn’t make words if he tried.  
 __

 _Crack!_ Sherlock yells in agony when a boot—steel-toed this time—collides with his arm and he can feel it break. Involuntarily, he lets out a whimper, turning to his side, holding his arm protectively. The other boots kick him, now. One lands a solid blow to his ribs, and he yells again. He’s positive that a rib breaks at some point. A few kicks to the side of his head make him certain he’s concussed. Sound starts to lose focus, turning fuzzy. Sherlock knows that if his eyes were open, his vision would be fading.  
 __

 _The stupid thing,_ he reflects, privately drawing his consciousness into himself, trying to block out the pain, _is that I have no idea why they followed me this time._

It’s probably only his existence, the fact that he’s brilliant and they’re dim, that make him their target today. Like most of the other days. Sherlock is fairly certain he didn’t insult any of these boys, not recently.

He can feel blood leaking from his nose, but he doesn’t remember being hit there. A dull pain tells him he was. _Nose broken. Arm. Rib cracked. Concussion._ He takes toll of his most serious injuries. _Maybe they_ will _kill me this time,_ he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, feeling hot tears join the blood from his nose.  
 __

 _Maybe they should._

***

It’s finally the weekend, and John Watson is in the car with Mike Stamford, laughing and bobbing his head to the cherry music on the radio. They’re on their way out of town, to catch their respective trains home for the hard-earned Christmas holidays. Mike’s car is old, but John doesn’t have one, so he’s grateful to get a ride out to King’s Cross. He’s so broke right now it was this or walk there. It’s not far, but it’s freezing outside, and John’s coat is a bit thin over his jumper, which is unraveling in three places.

“Oh bollocks,” says Mike, no longer laughing. Turning the radio down, he leans forward, tilting his head. They both listen, driving down Baker Street after dropping off another friend. “Bloody transmission. It’s been making those noises again.”

John frowns, still listening. He doesn’t hear anything. Then again, he knows very little about cars.

“Damn thing won’t make it all the way home.” Mike slows down a bit, trying to gauge if it can get them to King’s Cross or not.

John suddenly turns in his seat, nearly all the way around, as they pass an alleyway. _Was that…?_ he thinks.

“Stop the car, Mike!” Confused, Mike pulls over into a vacant space on the side of the road.

“What? I didn’t hear anything,” he says, looking at the dashboard of his car more closely, clearly assuming John thinks the car is about to explode.

“No, not that,” John says, launching himself out of the old car. He ignores Mike’s confused yells behind him and runs a block back up Baker Street to the opening of an alley.

He sees a group of teenagers, three tall, strapping kids, built like athletes, surrounding a scrawney dark-haired boy. The boy’s on the ground, covered in mud, and obviously injured.

“Hey!” he yells, running at them. They all look up and run, one of them dropping a long wool coat on the ground. John starts to run down the alley after them, but then turns to the boy. He’s huddled on his side, in the fetal position. John can tell by the way he’s cradling his arm that he’s in a lot of pain. He kneels on the cement next to the boy and touches his shoulder gently. The boy cringes.

“Please,” the boy whispers desperately, his voice oddly muffled. John sees blood on his face and knows his nose is broken. Gently as he can, John picks him up. The boy is lanky and long, but very light. A strangled sob escapes the boy’s pale lips as Mike jogs around the corner.

“Grab his coat, Mike. We’ve got to take him to the hospital.” John jerks his head behind him to where the coat has fallen. Mike swears under his breath but gets the coat and follows John back to the car.

“What happened?” he asks, opening the back door for John to put the boy in. John climbs in with him, keeping an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Mike gets in the front seat and makes a dangerous U-turn to get back on the road in the right direction.

“He was getting beat up by three boys, twice his size. Hurry up, I think he might have a concussion,” says John, peering into the boy’s face.

“Yes,” says the boy with a wheeze and a cough. “Concussion.” John is startled by this. He wasn’t even sure the boy was still conscious. John moves his hand to check the boy’s pulse, hoping it’s not too weak, when one of his eyes opens. The other is practically swollen shut, the bruise rising around it quickly. It’s the most piercing gray John’s ever seen. The pupil is tiny.

“I’m John,” he says quietly. “What’s your name?” The boy doesn’t answer but nods very slightly, then closes his eyes, cringing in pain. John decides to keep talking. “I’m a doctor. Well, I’m going to be. Mike, too. We’re students at Bart’s. Is anything else hurt besides your nose and arm?” he asks.

“Ribs,” the boy croaks, moving his good arm. The white button-up is nearly translucent around the mud soaking it. John can see bruises underneath the fabric, mottled purple skin in vaguely boot-shaped patterns.

With his arm moved and head turned, John also notices the yellow and purpling skin on his throat. John hopes the kids responsible for this are caught. This isn’t just school-yard bullying. This is too far. John’s chest hurts with the injustice of it. 

They pull up and Mike lets John out, mostly carrying the boy inside.

Once the boy’s been put into the care of some doctors, John feels a little better. Sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, he realizes he never did get the boy’s name.

“Is he okay?” asks Mike, coming into the waiting room. John nods.

“Yeah, he’s getting treated now. He’ll be fine.” Mike stands awkwardly for a moment, looks at his watch, and starts.

“Ah hell, we’re gonna miss our trains!” he yells. John glances at the clock. They still have ten minutes.

“No we won’t, c’mon!” They both sprint out of the hospital to Mike’s car. Only once John has caught his breath, sitting on the train, does he think about the boy again as he looks out the window at the pale gray countryside. He wonders if he’ll be able to find out his name and make sure he’s okay. And if he knows his attackers, the sick bastards. But John knows that he won’t be able to find out until after Christmas. A few moments later, he’s sleeping, cheek pressed against the cold window, dreaming of Christmas pudding and hot cocoa.

***

Sherlock wakes up in the hospital the next afternoon, groggy and in pain. He tries to sit up, but a gentle hand holds him down on his good shoulder. Only one eye opens all the way, and his throat hurts so much he never wants to swallow or talk again, but he has to know.

“Where’s John?” It comes out as a rasping gasp, hardly intelligible.

“Who?” The nurse looks puzzled. Nobody in Sherlock’s family has a name quite so normal as John; his mother kept that tradition strong.

“John, John, he… brought me here! He’s…” Sherlock strains to sit up again, coughing and wincing, but the nurse is stronger than she looks. Sherlock is trying to remember John, but everything’s so blurry it’s hard to remember what’s real. He’s pretty sure John said he was going to be a doctor. He’s also pretty sure he asked Sherlock to dance. Sherlock doubts his memory and falls silent, frustrated.

“I’m sorry, young man, but nobody named John has been in to see you.” Sherlock glares at her as best he can with a slightly swollen eye. She rolls her eyes and leaves. Sherlock sits up at once to spite her.

“Ahh, Sherlock, good,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Sherlock turns his petulant look on his older brother, who’s pocket square is perfectly protruding from his starched suit. He walks in, setting his umbrella next to the door. It isn’t even raining, Sherlock can see by its dryness, but he insists on carrying it. Stupid git. He decides he isn’t going to talk to Mycroft.

“I’m sorry to say, Sherlock, that nobody got the name of your valiant young hero,” says his older brother, sitting in the bedside chair. Sherlock fixes him with another glare, hoping to convey his distaste for the phrase _valiant hero_. “Mummy is home resting. She’ll be around tomorrow to visit, and you’ll be released the day after.”

Sherlock huffs and looks down at his blankets. He sees his arm in its cast and realizes he won’t be able to play the violin for weeks, perhaps months. His annoyed look becomes crestfallen. Mycroft reaches out a hand and touches Sherlock’s shoulder, briefly. Sherlock lets it rest for a moment before shrugging it off and wincing; his ribs and other shoulder are on fire.

A nurse comes in to give Sherlock some pain medicine. Mycroft waits until he falls asleep, sits a stack of books (mostly science and psychology textbooks) on Sherlock’s bedside, and leaves. He wonders how he can go about finding the young man who saved his brother…

***

Years later, John Watson is crouching over his bloodied friend and flatmate. Sherlock is curled up on his side after being hit twice with a huge wooden board. He can see it wasn’t just plywood that’d done this, either, but something much more solid. John touches his shoulder softly. Involuntarily, Sherlock cringes and curls up tighter. John pulls him gently on to his back and sees his face, nose broken and bloody.

Sherlock opens one startlingly gray eye, the other swollen already, and looks up at John, who can see he has a concussion from the pinprick size of the man’s pupil. The strangest feeling of déjà vu passes over him as DI Lestrade and a pair of paramedics run around the corner. He can’t place why, but he feels like this has happened before.

“I’d love to dance,” whispers Sherlock weakly.

There’s nothing to say to this, so John hops into the back of the ambulance with Sherlock.


End file.
